


i could use a wish right now

by MichelleHolland (ViolaWay)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Homeless, Angst, Break Up, Fast Moving, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homelessness, Homophobia, M/M, Memories, a little bit angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/MichelleHolland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thrown out onto the streets, Harry has only his guitar and his soul left. Louis has only his home and his heart to offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i could use a wish right now

It’s been years since he left school, since he moved to London and got a good job with a reliable income. He works in an office, actually: a boring nine to five shift, but he can’t complain, because it pays the bills. He’s put that old life, though, behind him. No more pining, no more frantic studying for exams; it’s done.

 

If he still dreams of his high school sweetheart, then what of it? He doesn’t need a boyfriend—he’s a strong, independent man, and even if he hasn’t had sex in the last year, he’s okay.

 

That’s what Louis thinks, when he walks to work every morning. His inner mantra. It’s just that, this Monday, his routine changes slightly.

 

“Harry?”

 

“Louis?”

 

Louis rubs his eyes, as though this is a dream that he can snap out of in an instant. But he’s never had that insane vertigo, where a dream feels like reality or vice versa, so he knows that’s not it. The boy with the rain-matted curls and the battered old guitar sitting on the side of the road is Harry Styles, and this is, inescapably, reality.

 

“Harry, what are you doing here?” Louis asks hoarsely.

 

“What do you think?” A bitter laugh, harsh in Harry’s melodic voice. “I got kicked out. You know the reason we broke up? Because we had to hide, to avoid the risk of my parents finding out? Yeah, well I told them. And now look: Here I am.”

 

“Haz…” Louis trails off insufficiently. “I’m so sorry. Why are you in London, though?”

 

“Well, Holmes Chapel’s a pretty small place. Parents throw their seventeen-year-old son onto the streets, that’s not exactly the place to do it. They told me to get a job here. They told me to find accommodation, to just get out of their lives and stay out. They told me I was a disgrace. Well, I didn’t find a job, and I don’t have accommodation. They forced me into poverty, basically,” Harry explains, hatred seeping off every word. Sadness, too.

 

“Harry, this isn’t the place to talk.” Louis glances around self-consciously, holding out his hand to help Harry to his feet. “C’mon, let’s go back to mine.”

 

“I don’t want help, Louis.”

 

“Well, it fucking sounds like you do,” Louis growls. “So take your pride and shove it up your arse. We said we’d stay friends, so now, as one friend to another, I am inviting you to my house. And you’re saying yes.”

 

“No one ever means that,” Harry says sourly. “Staying friends. We’re not friends, Louis. We haven’t talked since you broke up with me.” The knife-edge of bitterness smothers every word, shockingly different from the sugary-sweet coating that Louis once knew.

 

“I don’t care what we are,” Louis retorts stubbornly, reaching out before he can think about it and wrapping his fingers around Harry’s dangerously skinny wrist. “C’mon.”

 

***

 

Louis’ apartment is spacious, but bare. Undecorated: White walls, beige carpet and standard furniture. Harry remembers, reluctantly, the time that they had painted Louis’ old bedroom, back in Holmes Chapel. It had been just after Louis’ sixteenth birthday, and they’d been given free rein in the room by Jay and Mark. They had covered the floor with old newspapers, and moved all of the furniture out onto the landing. They opened cans of bright orange paint, only dabbing a little onto each other’s noses before they got down to ‘business’, streaking the walls with the paint—ever-so-seriously—until the job was done. Jay had complained that the vividness of the colour offended her eyes, but neither of the young boys cared. They were proud.

 

The flat looks like it needs that.

 

Harry remembers, too, the marks on Louis’ door back home—the little lines that documented both of their heights over the years; the lines that showed when Harry had shot past Louis, becoming taller and taller until his pink pen mark was four inches higher than Louis’ silver one.

 

He remembers kissing Louis in that room, loving him there.

 

He still loves Louis, a little bit. That’s why he doesn’t want to be here, why he doesn’t want Louis to see him like this. He never got over the closing word of their relationship, the “I feel like you’re ashamed of me, Hazza. Why wouldn’t you tell anyone?” The hurt in Louis’ eyes as he said it.

 

That was always going to be the stumbling block in their relationship: Harry’s fear. Something they couldn’t move past, that made them both resentful and angry.

 

Since they were kids, even. Swapping kisses on the playground, _even then._ Harry would say “this is wrong” like he truly believed that. Louis would be hurt, would stop talking to Harry for days. Only now Harry realizes that Louis was just as insecure about his blossoming sexuality, and that was why he lashed out when Harry questioned it.

 

Even when they were an official ‘couple’, Harry didn’t want to tell anyone.

 

Their first big fight came after Louis confided in his parents, told them about the relationship. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. Jay and Mark weren’t on real speaking terms with Harry’s parents, and Louis had specifically told them that Harry didn’t want to come out yet. The problem, really, was jealousy. Louis’ parents accepted him unconditionally, supported who he was. Harry’s parents openly spouted their disgust towards homosexuals over the dinner table, between complaining about ‘rotten immigrants’ and ‘kids these days’.

 

So they fought. Harry shouted, and he cried, because his parents would never love him for who he was, and Louis tried to keep calm, even when Harry lashed out, screamed “FAG!” at his own boyfriend. They both cried, in the end, and they kissed desperately, as if they could make their problems go away.

 

Louis never asked Harry to come out to his parents, not specifically, until they day they broke up. He mentioned, a few times, that he would have liked their best friends to know, and he reiterated consistently that Harry’s parents would surely continue to be loving and supportive.

 

But he never asked.

 

Until he did, right at the end. Called Harry a coward, looked so _hurt._ Then he left, to go to London. One last text: “I still want to be friends, Haz x” Harry ignored it. He was still livid, even though he knew it wasn’t Louis at fault. He’d never explained, fully, why he was so terrified of his parents’ reaction. Louis didn’t _know._

 

Then the anger gave way, replaced by deep, searing sadness. He stayed in his room, barely ate, slept a lot. His parents joked that he must have been dumped. One day, he snapped at them that he had, and they said nothing more about the matter.

 

Sometimes Harry wondered if his parents suspected. Maybe they were just waiting for him to acknowledge it. He went to Louis’ house a lot. Jay and Mark became confidants, and he babysitted for the girls sometimes, too. Lottie, a teenager by then, told him that if he wanted Louis back—and he obviously did—he should fulfil the man’s last request.

 

It took just over a year, all in all. For Harry to build up all of his courage, to blurt out the truth to his parents over breakfast, just about to head off to his Sixth Form. Then came the disgust. Rolling off them in waves, openly and strongly. They told him he was a disappointment, and then they told him to pack a few things. He remembers how confused he felt, in that moment, grabbing his guitar and a few changes of clothes, his toothbrush and a book.

 

They dropped him off on crowded pathway, and the walked away. He was still confused, and he ran after then. He even caught up, but they turned to him, faces full of such loathing that he backed away, even as they explained, in clipped, clinical tones, what was happening. That they were discarding him, like a broken appliance. To them, he _was_ broken.

 

He’d forgotten to pack his phone, or any money.

 

He hadn’t expected this.

 

Back in the present, he sits awkwardly on the cream sofa, trying to flick his lank curls away from his face. Louis hurries over to the kitchenette, grabbing the kettle and putting it on to boil.

 

“Tea?” he calls back into the living room.

 

“Yeah,” Harry replies. “Two sugars…”

 

“…lots of milk,” Louis interrupts, raising his voice over the clatter of mugs as he fishes through the cupboard. “I know. I remember.”

 

They both lapse into silence, and Harry plays with the loose skin by his thumbnail. He pulls it away until a spot of blood forms, appearing seemingly out of intact skin, surprising him. He didn’t feel the warning shots of pain, although now that he looks closer, he can see the tiniest cut slicing through his skin. A little red trail drips down his thumb.

 

“Here,” Louis announces, setting the mugs down on the plastic, made to look like wood table. “…Oh. Come on, Haz, let’s clean that up.” Harry’s used to Louis’ propensity for caretaking, so he allows himself to be led into the kitchen, for Louis to carefully sprinkle water over the miniscule gash.

 

“I’m fine,” Harry objects softly, when there’s talk of a plaster. It’s honestly not serious, not a wound that warrants any attention at all, really. But Louis’ eyes are wet, and he isn’t sure of what to do.

 

“I just…” Louis begins, sniffing quietly. “I always wanted to be there. To protect you; to take care of you. And I…I haven’t been. If I hadn’t taken that route to work today, I might have missed you, and then who knows where you’d be in a week, a month. For the past year, I’ve ignored you, and this has happened. It’s my fault.”

 

Harry’s never heard a more ridiculous statement in his life, and he says as much. “How can it be your fault,” he demands, “if you weren’t the one who kicked me out?”

 

“Because I wasn’t _there_ ,” the older man insists. “I should never have asked you to…to do anything you weren’t comfortable with—if I’d just been there…”

 

Harry moves forward and envelops Louis in a hug before the other man can protest, pressing his cheek guiltily into Louis’ hair and inhaling, carding his fingers through the strands at the back. Normally—or, well, it _used to be_ Louis who would comfort Harry, and the reversal of roles is a little disconcerting. But Harry can’t help but let himself bask in this small shred of hope, this tiny show of affection that reminds him of their ‘glory days’. He wants those days back, but he’ll settle for this snippet instead.

 

***

 

Louis’ not going to let Harry leave again. He’s decided this, and now he’s just working out how to say it. After a year, a random “I love you!” just isn’t going to suffice. In fact, a statement like that will probably send Harry running, and that’s the opposite of what he wants.

 

They dance around each other for the remainder of the day, neither saying what they truly think. Harry makes lunch, tutting at the contents of Louis’ cupboards (super noodles, for the most part) and Louis all but forces the boy to take a shower, and lends him clothes even though they’re too small by now. They watch TV and they try to find comfortable footing around each other, even though they’re anything but comfortable. They tried to avoid touching wherever possible, sitting stiffly side by side.

 

Until Louis blurts it out, spontaneously, unable to stand being so close to Harry but feeling like they’re a million miles apart.

 

“I want to try.”

 

Harry’s head jerks round so fast that there’s a loud click in his neck, and his hand reaches up to cover it.

 

“Ow!” Then he seems to remember again. “What did you say?”

 

“I want to try…I want you to stay,” Louis clarifies nervously. “Here. I don’t want to let you go again, and I know it’s out of line and that you’re going to be insulted by the inference that you can’t look after yourself—but you _can’t_ , Harry, not on your own.” He’s babbling; can’t seem to stop. “I mean, I’ll help you get a job, and then when you save up enough to buy a place of your own, you can leave. But until then…”

 

“Louis, _shut up,_ ” Harry interrupts. “What kind of idiot would refuse an offer to have a home again?”

 

“I don’t know,” Louis replies. “You?”

 

“Louis, if you let me, I’ll stay. As long as you want me, I’ll stay. It was always like that for us.”

 

“I’m sorry, Haz. I never would’ve thought your parents would do this…”

 

“It doesn’t matter. They did, and you’re here now. That’s all that matters to me.”

 

Louis leans across, pressing the briefest of kisses to Harry’s lips, terrified of the outcome but wanting to know: Are they still okay?

 

Harry, as if reading his thoughts, whispers his reply into Louis’ ear, voice deep and slow.

 

“We’re always okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> please leave feedback!


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